


Collarbones, and Other Attributes

by TheGreenMeridian



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, fantasising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 03:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian
Summary: After a chancing upon James in a state of semi-undress, Francis cannot sleep.





	Collarbones, and Other Attributes

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first foray into this fandom as a writer, though I’ve been an avid reader for some time. Hopefully I’ve managed to keep the language era appropriate and capture Francis well.
> 
> Inspired heavily by this: https://wildcard47.tumblr.com/post/187736390429/fitzchocos-hmm-really-makes-you-think

Collarbones. Francis has never given that particular body part any consideration. Every man has them, just as every man has ribs and a sternum. They are a simple fact of biology, serving their purpose as part of the skeleton as a whole, but by themselves of no note to anyone outside of the medical profession. It is ridiculous, therefore, that for the fifth night in a row, it is collarbones that chase sleep from his body and leave him restless in his bunk. Naturally, it is Fitzjames’ fault. That preening peacock of a man, better suited to the salons of Paris than the decks of ships. Even in their current predicament, with all they have to fret over, the man continues to demand attention simply with his proud carriage and the rich timbre of his voice. And Francis no longer has the aid of whiskey to dull his undue interest in the man. 

Had Fitzjames simply told him to wait upon knocking, Francis would have no more trouble with sleep than usual. A man with even a shred of modesty would have finished dressing before inviting him to enter his quarters, rather than allow himself to be seen in his linens with his steward in attendance. But not Fitzjames. No, Fitzjames had felt the need to laugh off his state of undress with some excuse about snow falling from the rigging and soaking him to the skin while standing before him, bare chested and blushing from cold, and displaying those ridiculous collarbones and a devilishly long neck for Francis to admire. And admire he did, though he despises himself for it. Such base immorality has always been a part of him but the spirits had helped suppress it these long years and he had, mistakenly, thought himself in control of it. Even a man with Francis’ talent for anger and dislike of others can not delude himself into believing that his unseemly obsession with Fitzjames’ collarbones is the result of jealousy or disgust. No. It is undoubtedly lust that has kept him awake these past nights. Even when he truly despised the man, he had found him alluring and with both knowledge of the man’s bare torso and the begrudging respect and enjoyment of his Second’s company, the pull of his attraction is too strong to bear.

The small bunk provides little room to toss and turn, though it doesn’t prevent him from rolling yet again onto his belly and burying his face in his pillow. He needs rest. Preparations for their journey are well underway, a journey he’s sure few of them will survive, and he needs to be at his best for his men. He doesn’t need to be lost to imaginings of Fitzjames’ collarbones. Nor does he need to be wasting energy on fighting thoughts of tracing the shape of them with his tongue or sucking bruises up the taut sinews of Fitzjames’ neck.

He is growing hard against the mattress and he can’t stop himself from pushing forward a little, just to feel the sweet pressure on his rising length. It’s exquisite, though hardly enough to satisfy. With a muttered curse, he rolls to his back, rucks up his nightshirt, and concedes defeat. The heavy pulse of himself in his hand is a brutal sort of thing, classless and coarse and crude, but undeniably the only route to rest that he has.

He wonders if Fitzjames commits this particular sin alone in his cabin. Fitzjames, he decides immediately, would be lacking in the stoutness of his own endowment but would be superior in length. Long, slim, as beautifully crafted as the rest of him, with mahogany hair decorating him about the groin and thighs. He’d rise between sharp hips to a stomach smooth and tight with muscle, pointing up towards a fine chest and those damnable collarbones. Fitzjames of course would not touch himself furtively beneath blankets. Instead he would bare himself to the room, laid back on display with those elegant legs bent at the knee and spread, showing a hint of his buttocks and the dark hair leading between them to a hidden place even a man of Francis’ sins cannot bring himself to imagine, though he craves it nonetheless. Fitzjames’ stones would be plump and tightly gathered in their sack in anticipation of release. And that glorious prick would be reddened and leaking, wetting Fitzjames’ hand with its impatience. What a sight he would make, so unabashed in his pursuit of pleasure. That long neck cast back to expose his throat, those bold collarbones displayed in all their glory, that sharply carved jaw in turn slackened and clenched as he toyed with himself.

Francis bites the meat of his free hand as his fist tightens reflexively around his length. He’s as hard and slick as the Fitzjames in his mind, a dull ache around his stones and deep within. Too long he has denied himself this, knowing that it would be James he would imagine. He’s pent up and in terrible need of a good hard spend, his body demanding it with hard throbs of pleasure tightening his belly and thighs with every hooding and unhooding of that swollen, near purple head. 

Fitzjames would cry out, not bite his lip or hand to stifle his obvious enjoyment. He’d tease his foreskin, his slit, down the length of himself, trailing over veins and travelling back up, always moving those devilishly long fingers but never quite giving himself the friction he truly needs. It would be an event, not a means to an end, and he would drag it out until he was red-faced and trembling. Then, and only then, would he wrap one of his finely boned hands around himself and begin stroking himself in earnest.

For the first time since his youth, Francis truly resents not being able to seek comfort and pleasure in the body of another. His own hand, calloused and worn, is no substitute for what he imagines Fitzjames’ to feel like. Even in the harsh arctic climate, they have always looked soft and smooth, almost deceptively delicate. Feminine, if not for the size of them and the obvious lean strength of the arms they belong to. He wants Fitzjames’ body beneath him, weighted into the mattress with his own bulk. He wants those smirking lips against his own and the warm press of their pricks between them as they rut like animals. How wonderfully James would writhe beneath him, were he to lathe those collarbones with his tongue and trace the hollow of James’ neck. How beautiful that magnificent neck would look, dotted with marks of ownership and stretched out in a show of trust and submission so that Francis might better explore it with his lips. It would be difficult, nearly impossible when faced with such beauty, but he would hold himself back to ensure Fitzjames would spend first in hot, thick spurts between them. He’d look down upon his lover in the raptures of orgasm and commit to memory the furrowing of James’ handsome brow and the gasped moans of his name. Only once James was completely undone would he seek his own pleasure against the body beneath him, forging ahead with forceful rolls of his hips to the intoxicating sounds of whispered encouragement and admiration as James pushed back against him and held him close.

With a grunt, his body arches off the bunk before jerking as he empties across himself in three powerful stripes, with more oozing from his slit and dribbling over his fingers as he begins to return to sanity. His legs are shaking, lingering shocks of pleasure making his breath catch in his throat. James would perhaps demand to be held, to rest his head on Francis’ broader chest and have his thick locks stroked and toyed with, and Francis would give it all to him gladly. Truthfully, he wishes more than ever for the presence of another in these lonely moments after release, and his skin is aching for the loving touch of a partner to soothe him. Instead he is alone and unloved, left to clean up his own mess and as unlikely to get a restful sleep as he was when he started.

Tomorrow he will face James and be thankful for the icy air providing an excuse for cheeks rosy with the hidden shame of his detestable behaviour. In a moment of madness, perhaps when James offers him a smile or a pat on the shoulder, he will consider telling James how much he has come to admire and yearn for him before dismissing the notion with a bitter bark of laughter. Now though, he wipes himself down with a cloth, rearranges his nightshirt, and slips into a fitful sleep full of loving brown eyes and the warm, tender touch of long fingers clasped in his own.

**Author's Note:**

> thegreenmeridian.tumblr.com


End file.
